Better Than New

by Nicole Curtis

  It’s not the type of house anyone who has ever seen my show would expect me to tackle. It’s only from the 1950s—not that old—but my grand- father built it himself. It’s a sprawling, unique ranch. It also has a wonderful old red barn out back that I swore as a little girl I would get married in one day. I can’t walk around that property without being seven years old again. That house is where a blond tomboy with perpetually skinned knees learned to swing a hammer, saw in a straight line (well, I’m still not very good at sawing in a straight line), and even drive a tractor.

  My then eighty-nine-year-old grandfather didn’t see the romance as he and my grandmother walked around the house with me. It had stood empty for quite a while. The previous owners had made some “improvements” that disguised the charm, and time had left its mark as well. I could see it was hard for him to be there. I knew deep down that the house meant a lot to him. He and my Gram had met when they were twenty years old; my Gramps was straight out of the Navy and my Gram was a salesclerk at a local clothing store. They had very little, but they had love. Over the years, they built quite the empire together. This property was simply vacant land when they used $250 they had saved up to purchase it. They built the house piece by piece—no loans, all cash. At one point, they lived in the basement as they didn’t have enough money to finish the main floor. They knew every square inch of that house, and there wasn’t one bit of it that didn’t have their stamp on it. It wasn’t their wish for it to ever leave our family, but it did, and it broke their hearts, especially knowing that it ended up looking like complete hell.

  “Why would you buy this house?” he said. “I put all that time and work into this place and look how it wound up. It doesn’t make sense for you to do that.”

  “Gramps, I grew up here. I learned how to do what I do from you. If it wasn’t for watching you build and work on this house all those years, I’d be some cute elementary school teacher with two dogs, a nice white picket fence, and summers off.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that?” he said.

  I rolled my eyes. He knew perfectly well what was wrong with that. It wasn’t me.

  Gramps is the reason I write in concrete at all my homes (top). A picture of my Gramps’s garbage removal business (bottom).

  I bought the house thinking it would bring my family together. I envisioned big family gatherings and my children making some of the same memories I’d enjoyed—running barefoot around the yard, picking cherries for lunch, swimming in the indoor pool. (Well, okay, I just sat on the edge getting my feet wet because I was not a swimmer, but the rest was there for us to share.) I also wanted to return a piece of their history to my grandparents. I wanted to show them both what they meant to me, and this house was the best way of doing that. I know better than anyone what it feels like to see something you built with your own hands disappear.

  I grew up in my parents’ house, but my grandparents’ house was where I got to really be a kid. It was the one place where I didn’t have chores, where there were always fun adventures. My parents were pretty strict, but there were no rules at my grandparents’ house. My cousins and I would go outside and spend hours exploring the property, digging up large rocks to expose the salamanders hiding under them.

  My grandparents did what grandparents are supposed to do—they spoiled us. If I didn’t like what my grandmother made for dinner, she’d make me something else. Gramps worked hard. He was a gentleman farmer and was constantly improving one part of the property or another. Together, they built a successful garbage company, and invested in property and other businesses. He was a tough guy who worked hard and made a good living. He could be scary to people who wanted to mess with him, this short stocky guy with a gruff face and crew cut. But to us, he was just our grandpa. And we adored him.

  The ranch-style house is deceptive; it looks small from the road, but it’s L-shaped, and the other half of the L is actually an indoor pool. Although we had already completed a lot of the work during my pregnancy, there was still so much to do. Not to mention that there was the back apartment (the one I had retreated to all those years earlier), an old barn, and a massive pole barn. It was a lot of work, but when compared to what would occur with Ransom Gillis, it was a piece of cake.

  At work on the Ransom Gillis mansion.

  With the Ransom Gillis house, the lunacy started almost immediately. I had assumed that we would be rehabbing the house in its original form, as a single-family dwelling. After all, that’s what I’m known for: returning homes to their former glory. Imagine my surprise when I was told it needed to be designed as a fourplex.

  “What?” I said. “No. I agreed to do it as a single family. A fourplex is crazy.”

  We went back and forth for several days, until finally the rep called me.

  “Nicole, they’re absolutely refusing, but they’ll agree to do it as a duplex.”

  I was worn out. I was a few weeks postpartum. I hadn’t slept, and I had been promised that this all would be so “easy,” and it was turning out to be anything but. So I gave in, even though it meant I’d now be doing double the work: designing two kitchens, two dining rooms, two of everything. It was just the start of losing my “complete creative control.”

  The “glamorous” life of filming a TV show.

  I asked to see plans for the remodel for weeks. Normally, I sketch out project plans in a day or so and have formal blueprints back from my architect within another day, so I was perplexed at what was taking so long. When I finally got the plans, I was dismayed. They called for covering up fireplaces, dropping ceilings, losing original details. Basically disguising anything that gave the building its character and turning it into two boring condos.

  I don’t think anyone expected me to be back at work so soon. That may have led people to assume they could just make decisions without my input. They thought wrong. I loaded up the baby, and with him sleeping nestled in his sling, I walked the house, plans in hand, redlining everything that didn’t work. I soon had a meeting with the man who would come to represent to me everything that was wrong on the Ransom Gillis project. I’m not even sure what his official title was, but he was the guy calling the shots. This would be the first of many meetings where it was obvious that I’m a mom first, and if you cut into that time, be prepared to see a baby, and that baby may be on my breast.

  The social media post regarding those “extra pounds” (left). Filming with Andrew on the first day (right).

  One would think this guy and I were on the same team, and I should have been viewed as a friend rather than a foe. But it became immediately apparent that my “need” to keep the house as historic as possible had pissed him off. He showed up with an attitude, but I wanted to do this house right, so I was all business—as much as I could be with a nursing baby in my arms. As we walked through the house, I pointed out each feature and explained what it meant to the house and the project. He couldn’t have been more unpleasant. Rather than appreciating that I was trying to meet them halfway, he was snide.

  “This all sounds reasonable,” he said. “What happened to the Nicole that I’ve heard can be so difficult?” It took everything in me not to tell him where to go, but instead I kept my mouth shut. Was I being called difficult because I’m a woman? Was it because I’m a woman who had just redlined the house plans (literally with a marker) in ten minutes and saved them more than thirty thousand dollars in construction costs (when they could have done the same thing all along)? Who knows. But what he didn’t realize is that I am an expert in dealing with power-hungry men, and I wasn’t going to let him push my buttons.

  I would never hear him compliment a single person on that job site or say anything positive about the work we did. But all my changes were accepted. There was no reason for them not to be. My changes actually saved everyone money and time, and kept everything as historically correct as possible while building two units out of one.

  Check
ing the shot before jumping in front of the camera (top). Making Andrew stand in for me, and can you spy Jose? (bottom).

  We fine-tuned the remaining details, including that this was a union job. Many people didn’t understand that fact, and got quite nasty with me about who was working on the project, accusing me of not being loyal to Detroit small trades. It was very simple: It wasn’t my property; it wasn’t my call. By the time filming commenced, I looked like I had never even had a baby. I had only a few extra pounds on, mostly on my upper half, which would crudely be commented on in a social media post after the episodes aired. The fact that I didn’t look like I had just had a baby (no rock-star guru trainer here, just a combination of stress and my inability to sit still) made it all the easier to keep my new little one out of the public eye. People argued that they “deserved” to see my baby because I had shown Ethan front and center, but (1) he was twelve when we started the show and (2) had I known then what I know now, there’s no way I would’ve included him.

  The pumphouse closet, before (top). The beautiful pool bath, after (bottom), with Gramps’s directions preserved.

  On our first day of construction, I walked around and introduced myself to the crews. I explained to them that I was there to learn, and my goal was to make this house unbelievable again. They immediately let their guards down; they had apparently heard that I was a pain in the rear to work with, but when we started chatting, I found that they were just as excited as I was. Even better, they were passionate about putting their stamps on the project and making sure the iconic property was restored properly.

  From there on out, every morning when I got to the site, I’d say, “Hey, how are you? How’s everything going? What are you doing? That looks awesome! Why are you doing it like that? Oh, what kind of tool are you using there?” I made it clear that I wasn’t critiquing; I was curious. I care what the guys who get their hands dirty building the houses think, much more than I care about what the guys who handle the investments think. If the guys in the field said, “Nicole, this just isn’t right,” I took their word and made sure it was changed. The crew was a lot of fun, and I loved meeting their families.

  In the pool with Ethan (top, left). The pool, during foreclosure (top, right). The pool, newly renovated (bottom, left). In the pool with my new baby (bottom, right).

  The guys were comfortable with me. It never failed that one of them would come over to the truck as soon as I drove up and say, “Hey, Nicole, I’ve got something you have to see.” Or, “You won’t believe what we found.”

  At one point, I was checking out a staircase that the carpenter had just finished. “Wow, this is amazing. It’s like the most amazing staircase I’ve ever seen. You have got to be so proud of it. I bet people tell you that all the time,” I told him.

  “Actually, no one’s ever told me that. I just build the staircases and no one ever says anything.”

  That bonding was the best part of the project. So many times I thought, This is so dumb. Why wouldn’t they get us all together in a room? We should problem solve this together. But the people making the decisions had problems putting their egos aside for even a moment.

  Most people gut these bathrooms (left). Unnecessary! Look at this one after renovations (right).

  Meanwhile, I was experiencing nothing but joy on the Indian Lake Road house. Every room I worked on took me back to a magical childhood memory. I could see my cousins and myself hiding behind the easy chair in the living room, daring one another to stroke my grandfather’s buzz cut while he took a nap on the couch. The top of his hair felt so soft. When I would eventually take the dare, creeping slowly toward him, trying not to make a sound, I’d barely run my hand lightly across his hair when he would jump up with a roar to scare the bejesus out of us. He was so serious with everyone else, but he loved to be a kid with his grandkids.

  Redoing the indoor pool was an entirely new experience for me. I learned a lot about how to bring a pool back to life. We repainted the walls 1950s aqua blue, and cleaned up the timbers in the cathedral ceiling. Then I redid the family room adjacent to the pool, keeping the duck-themed wood paneling and adding a midcentury bathroom where the old pool pump and filter equipment used to sit. I left one part of the wall exposed where my Gramps had written instructions for maintaining the pool equipment. I finished the floors in epoxy, which made them look like the surface of a bowling ball. The house was turning into something spectacular.

  The barn on the Indian Lake Road property is so special to me.

  It was a dream project in so many ways, but one of the best things about working on it was that I had my grandparents to consult with, as they were in Michigan for the summer. My pet peeve with all the houses I work on is that I don’t have access to the former owners or builders who might be able to tell me why something was done a certain way, which could be so helpful to know. On the Indian Lake Road house, I could find that out anytime I wanted. My grandparents were around all the time. I can’t express enough how much fun I had hanging out with them. I knew I was blessed to have them.

  Between the two projects, it became another madly hectic summer. The baby was happy and a great traveler as we shuttled between Minneapolis, where I was wrapping up my affairs, and Detroit. But the pace was wearing me out. The closer I got to finishing both houses, the more they became polar opposites of each other.

  While the work on the Indian Lake Road house was moving along pretty much as I had planned, the Ransom Gillis mansion was a problem a day. In the run-up to the open house, we were working almost around the clock trying to get everything done, and getting nothing but grief. I’d end up working until two or three in the morning, trying to finish the house and accommodate the changes everybody wanted, while wearing and breast-feeding my baby. Yes, I’m a working mom, but this time around I was not going to be forced to be separated from my baby. While I was filming, the baby was on-site being cared for by one of our nannies: either my doula, Missy, or her friend, a midwife named Courtney. Having nannies might seem like an extravagance, but remember, I’m still a simple girl from the Midwest. I budget my money wisely—no fancy clothes or car—to make my life as a mommy easier.

  We were downtown around the clock with the Ransom Gillis mansion, and I took refuge at all the great events the city has to offer in the summer. One of those is the Detroit Jazz Festival, and I’ve always been a lover of jazz. After wrapping up work one night close to ten, I ventured out with Courtney to the riverside to catch the last few sets of the festival. I was in heaven and even posted on social media how great my evening had been. Walking back to the car, I was feeling the bliss, like when you first walk into a spa and it smells cool, clean, and crisp. That little recharging of batteries was all I needed. It reset my attitude. As we walked along, I thought, Yeah, I can do this. I can do the single-mom thing and still work like crazy and save houses. I’ve got this.

  We were parked just a couple of blocks from Hart Plaza, where the festival was held. I had driven by the Crowne Plaza with their valet parking, but because we were late, I had decided to park on the street rather than wait in the valet line. That turned out to be a mistake.

  When we returned to my truck, I saw a black SUV idling in the spot in front of us, a couple of guys sitting inside. I remember thinking it was kind of odd, but I quickly dismissed the thought.

  The night of the Detroit Jazz Festival.

  I unlocked the car and opened the driver’s side door to throw in some posters I had just bought. Leaving the door open, I went around to the rear passenger side to put the baby in the car seat. As I was strapping him in, I heard Courtney scream. I looked up and saw a man in the driver’s seat. I thought, What the hell! The man obviously thought my keys would be in the ignition. I watched in shock as he rooted around for them, but thankfully they were safely tucked away in my ever-present satchel. Then next thing I knew, a woman parked down the street who was watching this all transpire screamed, “C
all the police! Call the police!” I yelled, “Get out of my truck!” With that, the man reached over and grabbed my large beach bag that held my laptop, the rough draft of the manuscript of this book, and the cutest baby sunglasses that I would never find again, then exited my truck and jumped into the black SUV I’d seen idling in front of us.

  Courtney grabbed the baby, and I ran after the disappearing SUV. I memorized the license plate and called the cops. I knew these guys would get boxed up in the downtown traffic from the jazz festival. But the 911 operator mixed up what I told her and broadcast my car as the one the cops should be looking for. When the cops finally got to me, they were frustrated at the screwup because they had passed the SUV on its way onto Lodge Freeway.

  This is where it gets wonky. I’m not new to city life. I’ve had more things stolen than I can count. It comes with living in a big city. Leave a bike in the front yard and it’s going to disappear. So the guy started writing a police report and I finally said, “Look, I’m gonna go home.” Did I review the report? No. It was pointless. There was no chance I’d get my stuff back. It had been a long night, and I was ready for it to be over. What mattered was that everyone was safe. The report would later end up causing more problems than it was worth.

  I had put up a social media post explaining what had happened a few days later. Why? Because I encourage people on a daily basis to come into the city (all cities), and I never thought to tell anyone to be cautious. Guilt was killing me. What if this happened to someone coming to see one of my houses and they didn’t have the street smarts that I did? This could have been a lot worse. Had I driven our other vehicle, which has a keyless ignition, that guy who got only my bag and its contents would have been able to drive away with my truck and my beautiful baby, who was strapped into his car seat. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head. In the post, I didn’t mention Detroit; I kept it pretty vague. Yet the press piled on and kept calling me for comment. With each inquiry, I explained the situation and asked that they not run a story on this, but they did. And as in a wicked game of telephone, the story morphed until I was made out to be a “drama queen.” I was sitting at the pool relaxing when the head of the police department called me apologizing as one of their reps had been misquoted, and the next call was my friend Rosey from Mitch Albom’s team inviting me to come on his radio show and tell my side of the story. I did, but it didn’t matter. People hear what they want to hear. I would continue to get ripped apart in the media for months to come.